


Not Unlike a Woman

by pirateygoodness



Category: Legend of the Seeker (TV Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirateygoodness/pseuds/pirateygoodness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The Seeker and his companions seem happy to be chaste. The Mord'Sith are not. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Unlike a Woman

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after the end of 2.04, before the beginning of 2.07. Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/robotjen/profile)[**robotjen**](http://users.livejournal.com/robotjen/), because she is an evil ~sorceress~ and tricked me into all of this, omg.

  
People seem to assume - perhaps because they are not known for their social graces - that the Mord'Sith don't understand the things that happen around them. That they don't notice the small ways people communicate, the smiles and touches that express fear and longing and joy.

Cara notices everything.

+

They ride in pairs, sometimes - Richard and his Confessor leading, Cara and the wizard keeping pace several horse lengths behind. The wizard never speaks to her, if he can avoid it. Cara enjoys the quiet.

When they are three - when the wizard leaves them, to ride on ahead or to run an errand, as he so often does - things are different. Sometimes, Richard will ride with her, teaching her about leaves and wildlife in a voice that begs her to make an effort, to learn from him. His hands move too briskly, he laughs too loudly, and Cara doesn't need a Confessor's magic to understand the truth: he finds her unnerving.

There are other times when Cara and her horse fall behind, when Richard stays with his Confessor and they draw their horses together, riding too near to be safe. They let their interest in each other cloud their awareness, and so Cara stays alert enough for the three of them.

They are laughing together, Kahlan leaning forward as Richard points to something, speaking with his hands. Their laughter turns to contented smiles, and Richard draws his horse towards the Confessor's, nudging his knee against hers. She dips her head, almost shy, and Cara is sure that she's blushing, undignified and infatuated.

Kahlan's hand falls to rest on her thigh, next to her knee, and Richard takes it in his as though they are lovers. It's irrational, and foolish, and Cara is certain that they are both well aware of this fact. The fact that they continue to behave this way, in spite of it, is something Cara is not sure she will ever be able to accept.

The Confessor is speaking again, turning her head as she responds to Richard, tightening her grip on his hand. As she moves, Kahlan glances back, just for a moment. Her eyes are sharp, her mouth set, and the message is clear: Cara is not wanted.

Cara rolls her eyes in reply. It is not her job to be wanted.

+

She finds It in a market stall, in a small town outside of Pomora. She feels its power from leagues away, humming to her across the distance. It's wrapped, in layers of leather and then again in a satchel, safe and protected.

"What is this?" she asks the shopkeeper, pointing with her hand. Her Agiel is on her hip, the old fool's eyes watch that as he replies.

"Nothing," he tells her, voice shaking. "Just a toy." She can hear his hands under the table - reaching for weapons, perhaps, or his money.

"A toy?"

"Yes," he says, out of his wits with fear. The man is a trader, honest and common and stupid. Clearly, he's never taken It out of Its wrapping. "A toy ball. That's all it is."

"How much is it?

Cara tries to even her voice, school the threat out of it, thinking of the Confessor's patronizing jibes about _compassion_ and _other people's feelings_. As if the Mord'Sith were not true experts on other people's feelings.

"A gift. Take it."

She does, but she leaves a gold coin in Its place. Her instinct is to claim what's rightfully hers, without paying - the money can be used later, has greater value with herself than with a trader too ignorant to know what it is that he trades. Offering money despite protest, however, seems like the sort of foolish thing Richard would encourage her to do.

She is trying.

+

Cara keeps It, tucked away, inside her leathers. Wrapped, always wrapped. Close to her heart.

+

She hunts with a bow, as Richard has taught her. She's more skilled at it than he thinks she is - she dislikes being taught, but she recalls everything, learns faster than most.

There are days when tracking dinner takes ages, when laying snares for rabbits and chasing deer leaves her frustrated and unsatisfied. Kahlan's indulgent smile when she returns empty-handed is humiliating.

Then, there are other days, when rabbits seem happy to run right into her hands. When all the deer in the forest are half-deaf and easy to catch, and she finds enough for them to eat in hardly any time at all. These are the days when she sets her prize aside and finds a space for herself in the trees, a rock at her back and leaves around her, keeping her secure.

Her gloves come off first. She sets her Agiel at her side, next - within easy reach. Then she slides her hand into her bodice, fingers closing around It. She can feel the hum through the wrapping, as she always can, familiar magic that belongs in her hand. It is everything the Agiel is not - small, round, bound with white leather. When she removes the wrapping and touches It to her fingertip, she feels that hum of magic slide through her body, giving her the one thing the Agiel can never provide: the sweetness of pleasure.

At Mord'Sith temples, there were sisters who would perform this service for her. There were sisters she would help when they required it.

Here, there is no one but Cara, so she does this for herself.

She begins with her breasts, sliding It across them, feeling thrills of pleasure-once-removed, dulled by the leather. Time has passed - too much time, longer than Cara has ever had to wait before - since she allowed herself to feel this way, and it makes the sensation all the sweeter. She bites her lip, suppressing the groan of relief she feels rising in the back of her throat.

One-handed, she loosens the lacing at her hips. Her fingers are clumsy, both from distraction and from the oddness of performing the task backwards (she has no sisters, here in the forest), but eventually they slide home, finding warm flesh, strong from years of training and dedication. Her flesh, heating under the gentle press of her fingertips as she slides them down, across skin and coarse hair and into the slick, sensitive core of herself, aching to be touched.

The Seeker and his companions seem happy to be chaste. The Mord'Sith are not.

She traces the path of her fingers, slipping It under her leather and pressing It to bare skin, allowing herself to feel feeling all of Its' power. Her skin is buzzing with sensation, and the sound trapped in her throat breaks free, a noise of feminine vulnerability that makes her feel hotter. Her fingertips are slippery with her own need, growing slicker as she slides It down, along her body, to the place where she needs It most.

She can feel her climax building, coming quickly after such a long time denying herself. Inwardly, she vows never to keep herself from this feeling again, even as she feels herself hitting her peak and shudders, arching forward against herself. Sated.

She allows herself to lie still for a moment, basking in the feel of It, in the slow hum of pleasure that still races along her skin, traveling outward from the place where It touches her body. With lazy hands, she places It back in its wrapping, bundling It securely before she puts It in Its place, close to her heart.

When she returns to camp, her cheeks feel flushed, even after taking the long walk back to calm herself. Richard claps her on the shoulder, oblivious and smiling like a child proud of its new puppy. "There we go," he says. "Hunting isn't so bad, is it?"

"I suppose not," she says, feeling her mouth twitch into a smile despite herself.

She passes her rabbits to Kahlan, for cleaning. Cara is not yet trusted with blades.

+

Richard and Zedd leave them, camped outside Tamarang.

"Be nice," Richard tells her, and Cara smiles.

"I'm always nice," she says, and he tries to smile. Perhaps she isn't _always_ nice.

He gives Kahlan a significant look, over Cara's shoulder, one he thinks Cara doesn't notice. As if Cara didn't hear their argument last night, in heated whispers next to the fire.

The Mother Confessor huffs and crosses her arms, radiating dignity and serenity. Richard embraces her as though they may never see each other again, drinking in the smell of her as he pulls her close. Kahlan closes her eyes, fighting back tears. Cara rises and leaves to tend to her horse, behaving as though she sees nothing.

Zedd smiles at her, oddly tender, as though he's proud of her for realizing the compassionate thing to do.

She's learning.

+

Once the camp is empty, save Cara and the Confessor and the horses, silence settles around them like a weight.

Kahlan busies herself with work - collecting firewood, tending to the fire, cooking the last of their rabbits from the night before. Cara busies herself with watching. It makes Kahlan uncomfortable, to be observed with a gaze that isn't tempered by respect or admiration for her Confessor's power, and Cara takes no small pleasure in her discomfort.

Cara is a Mord'Sith, and it is not her place to be admired or befriended or wanted. But the Confessor has demonstrated, several times over, that she has no regard for the Mord'Sith's work, and Cara feels that under her skin, like an itch.

She is worthy of the Confessor's respect.

"Are you going to help?"

Cara watches her for a long while - longer than necessary. She's waiting for the moment when Kahlan shifts on her feet, betraying her discomfort. Once she has it, she speaks. "Of course. Command me, Confessor."

Kahlan sets her jaw, furious, standing straighter, and says nothing more. Cara is struck, not for the first time, with a feeling unsettlingly similar to admiration.

Were Kahlan ever given to Cara for training, Cara knows, with clear, absolute certainty, that she would allow herself to be tortured to death again and and again without breaking.

  
After that, the silence between them is even heavier than before. Kahlan busies herself, again, with the remainder of the day's chores. Work that Cara would be happy to do, if she were asked. Soon there is nothing left for either of them but to sit by the fire, Kahlan opposite Cara. They watch the flames together - Cara's gaze disinterested, Kahlan's mouth still set with anger intensified by half a day's brooding.

Cara has withstood far greater discomforts than a quiet afternoon with a sullen Confessor, but the game of goading Kahlan is turning sour. Whether or not it pleases her, the Confessor is her only company for close to a week, and there is more strategic merit in gaining Kahlan's trust than there is in enjoying the sight of her out of her element and frustrated.

She thinks, absently, about It, tucked inside her clothing, beneath the swell of her breasts. She thinks about whether or not she can find a quiet place to indulge herself.

When she stands, Kahlan rises just as quickly, stance wary. As always, she has mistaken Cara's teasing for genuine malice. "Where are you going?"

"Somewhere else," Cara says, schooling the irritation from her voice. The Confessor has spent much of the day coming and going as she pleased, and Cara has little patience for hypocrisy.

"Where?" Kahlan asks, crouching low. Her hand is already at her boot, closing around her knife hilt - as though, if Cara were going to attack, she would have given her this much time to respond.

"For a walk." She looks Kahlan up and down, pointed. "I feel as if we might both benefit from the time apart."

"No."

Kahlan crosses her arms, jaw set. Cara watches her, anger rising. She cannot decide if the Confessor's mistrust truly runs this deep, or if keeping Cara around is some sort of perverse show of principle. It's clear, from the look in Kahlan's eyes, that Cara is not wanted.

"Excuse me?" Cara says, her self-restraint tenuous.

"No," the Confessor repeats, raising her eyebrows as though Cara were a willful child. "You can wait until Richard and Zedd get back."

"The book they're searching for is at least two days' ride away. Do you really plan to supervise my every move until then?"

Kahlan pauses for a moment, her anger brought up short when confronted with the truth, but she grips her elbows, white-knuckled, and holds her ground. "I don't trust you when I can't see you."

Cara appreciates the honesty.

She takes her place by the fire, once more, and Kahlan does the same. They face the flames, each watching the other, each pretending that they are not. It does not take long before Cara's patience is frayed beyond her willingness to soothe Kahlan's pride.

If Richard were here, he'd smile reproachfully at her and say something, like _Cara, be nice_ , in his very best conciliatory voice. Compassion, however, requires much more effort than Cara is used to, and she can only be nice for so long. She reaches into her bodice and takes It out, rolling It out of its wrappings and across the camp to Kahlan.

The Confessor looks at It, unimpressed. Her appreciation for Mord'Sith craftsmanship appears to be lacking. "You want to play catch?"

Cara resists the urge to make an unkind face. She is being nice. "Pick it up."

"No," Kahlan replies, voice dripping with pride and mistrust. People - even the Mother Confessor - fall into these patterns so easily, when there is no reason for them to get along.

"Fine, then. Don't pick it up."

Cara rises, as if to reach for It. The moment she moves, the Confessor moves with her - forbidding an action can often be more powerful than encouraging it. (This is one of the first lessons she was ever taught.)

Kahlan wraps her hand around It, bare skin to white leather, pressing the magic to her whole palm. It takes less than an instant for her to react, and she drops It as though burned. When the Confessor looks at Cara, her eyes are dark, and for once Cara cannot tell if she's losing control of her magic or simply aroused. She's not sure if it matters.

"What is that?" Her voice is filled with revulsion, as though Kahlan wants Cara to think that she isn't pleased by It. Her hands are shaking.

"What do you think it is?" Cara asks in reply. The Confessor's face goes red, beyond the girlish blush she shows to Richard, and Cara knows with certainty that the Confessor knows exactly what It is.

"I -" Kahlan's gaze turns skyward, as though she is searching for the words. Her mouth hangs open, lips slightly parted in a way that Cara cannot help but appreciate. Were Kahlan not the Mother Confessor, she would have made a most impressive Mord'Sith.

After a moment, it occurs to Cara that speaking when Kahlan's shame prevents her from it is likely something a compassionate person would do. "It is what I was planning to do on my walk."

"Oh."

Kahlan's tone, for the first time since Cara has known her, is unreadable. She clasps her hands in her lap, the very picture of dignity and chastity in her white dress, and angles herself away from Cara to watch the fire, once more.

Cara reaches for It, biting her lip at the hum of pleasure that travels up from her fingertips as she replaces It in Its wrapping. She pretends not to notice the way Kahlan's gaze follows her hands.

+

The next day, they wake in silence. They prepare the meal without speaking - Cara because she has very little to say, Kahlan out of discomfort. She refuses to meet Cara's eyes until well after noon.

When Cara shoulders her bow, preparing for the hunt, Kahlan watches her resentfully. Her jaw is set, as though she plans to protest, but there is an apprehension in her eyes that Cara understands as shame.

She steps forward, into Kahlan's personal space, and the Confessor reaches for her blade but she does not step back, a credit to her own bravery once again. "You're welcome to join me," she says, watching as pink blooms across Kahlan's cheeks. "If you'd like."

Kahlan stands firm, and does not speak at all.

Cara leaves the camp, her step light with the knowledge of victory.

  
She returns much later, limbs loose with satiety and a snared rabbit over her shoulder. She does not bother to school her features into calm as she takes her place next to the fire, allowing herself to enjoy - and show that she enjoys - the familiar tug of recent satisfaction between her thighs.

When Kahlan looks to Cara, her gaze is naked desire. It's only for a moment, before she schools her features back down to disapproval, but Cara knows, with absolute certainty: she has her.

+

The next day, Cara rises late, waking to the smell of breakfast and Kahlan's eyes on her, sharp and suspicious. They eat without speaking.

  
"Confessor," she says, hours later.

Kahlan sighs, long-suffering, as though preparing for the worst. "Yes?"

"I've been thinking."

"Yes?" Kahlan says, as though the very idea is something that tries her patience.

"May I have your permission for something?" she says, voice low, back arched, the way she would speak to men given to her for training. "I'd like to take a walk."

The implication is clear, but she licks her lips just to be sure. Kahlan curls one hand into a fist, the other straying close to the hilt of her knife, as though she's tempted to let go of her calm. "You don't need my permission for that, Cara."

Cara bites her lip. There's fury in Kahlan's eyes, but there's also desire, and that's what Cara is trying to play with as she all but purrs, "Are you sure?"

"Just -" Kahlan shakes her head, standing and walking to the far end of the camp. Her shoulders are tense, her face dark when she finally speaks. "Do what you want."

Cara plans to do exactly that.

  
In the clearing she found the day before, Cara hears the telltale snap of a twig before she realizes, too late, that she is not alone.

She continues with the task at hand, of course. She has been taught never to let her enemies know that she sees them.

So she closes her eyes, arching into It where she's pressing It to her center, slick and throbbing, and looks up through her eyelashes. In the trees, just to her left, there's a flash of white dress and dark hair.

The next time she presses It against herself, she lets her body shudder in real pleasure and lets out a moan that's entirely performed, the sort of sound that she has learned will please men into compliance. There's a noise from the white shape in the trees, a feminine catch of breath that Cara knows, surely as she knows her own voice.

Evidently, it's the sort of sound that will please women, as well.

Cara feels her climax building within her, and she allows herself to smile the way she feels, happy and free and safe. She arches up again, whimpering, making ever-louder sounds as she watches Kahlan draw closer, from the edge of her vision.

As she finishes, shuddering and slippery around It and her hand, she turns her head and looks up, and _there_.

Her eyes find the Confessor's gaze, and hold it. Kahlan waits, frozen with shame, as Cara sighs out her release and places It in Its wrapping.

It's not until Cara raises her hand to her mouth, wet with her own pleasure, and licks her fingertips, that Kahlan turns away.

+

By the next morning, the third after Richard and Zedd have left, Cara and Kahlan have settled into a routine. They divide the chores without words, each moving to accommodate the other, assisting without speaking, keeping themselves busy. When the morning's work is finished, and they have cooked and divided and eaten the midday meal without a sound, Cara rises.

This time, she does not speak - does not take her leave, or tell Kahlan where she's going. She doesn't need to. She simply stands, and catches Kahlan's eye, and the understanding there is clear.

This time, Kahlan does not follow her in secret. She walks behind Cara, three paces back. They're not going anywhere together - it's Cara, and then Kahlan, the division is clear. But they both end up in the clearing, at the same time, Cara at ease and Kahlan tense with irritation.

" _Cara_ ," Kahlan says, all but stomping her foot. Her voice is clear, and strong, and to anyone who did not know her well, Cara's sure it would sound like confidence.

Cara knows Kahlan better than she thinks.

"What?" she replies, blinking as sweetly as she can when she turns to face her.

"Stop it," Kahlan says. It sounds lame, hollow, to both of them.

Cara takes a step forward, and then another, moving close to Kahlan and then too close, invading her personal space. This time, Kahlan neither flinches, nor reaches for her weapon. It's a sort of progress. "Stop what?" Cara asks.

"Stop-" Kahlan begins. Her lips are parted, and even as she protests she's leaning towards Cara's body, asking for more. Cara feels her own breath catch, and she can't suppress a smile. _She knows this_ , deep in her bones, the way Confessors know truth and wizards know magic. When she takes a half-step closer to Kahlan, cups the back of her head and kisses her, Kahlan's mouth presses back, hungry despite her words.

Cara knew she would be.

Kahlan pulls away, shaking her head as thought to clear it. Cara expected nothing less. Kahlan's eyes are dark, and this time the desire in them is clear, the black of her eyes blown and barely ringed by blue. "I love Richard," she says, like a defense.

"Do you really think I wish you loved me instead?" Cara smiles, as though speaking to a child. Her hand is still wrapped around the back of Kahlan's neck, and Kahlan is leaning into her touch. When Cara rocks their hips together, Kahlan rubs against her, arching towards the things that Cara can give her.

"A Mord'Sith can't love anything," Kahlan says, defiant. Her chin juts out, and Cara is sure she thought those words would sting.

She was, of course, incorrect.

"Well, then." Cara says, leaning closer, tasting the warmth of Kahlan's breath. "You shouldn't be worried. This isn't about love at all."

"What's it about?"

For the first time since Cara has known her, Kahlan sounds unsure of herself. It sends a thrill up Cara's spine, makes her skin warm with anticipation.

"I think you know," Cara says.

Kahlan pauses, and there's a wariness in her eyes that Cara wants to savor. Their bodies are close, pressed together like lovers'. Cara is moving nearer, letting her thigh rub against Kahlan's center, and even through layers of leather and cloth the Confessor is arching into her touch. Cara wants nothing more than to see this woman come undone.

"I -" Kahlan begins, but she stills her voice once again. It's clear that she knows exactly what this is about, but she seems unable to say it.

Once more, Cara puts her out of her misery. "Pleasure," she all but purrs, and Kahlan's teeth tamp down on her lower lip. "Nothing more."

Kahlan is the one to initiate the next kiss, tugging Cara closer by her hair and into an embrace as wanton as any Cara has experienced with a Mord'Sith.

There's an expression that the wizard has, about flies and honey and vinegar. If Cara were the type of person to use trite sayings, she thinks that this might be an appropriate time for it.

Kahlan's mouth is full of hunger, demanding in a way that does not surprise Cara, given her Confessor's tendencies for self-denial. Cara leans into her arms, meeting her mouth with teeth and tongue until the kiss is almost adversarial, until her hands are roaming from Kahlan's hair to her corset and then her hips. She fumbles, for a moment, distracted by Kahlan's nails sharp against her scalp in a way that makes her eyes roll back.

When Cara's hand finds Kahlan's center, pressing up through her leggings, Kahlan whimpers into her mouth and shoves her away, defiant as ever. They are hardly two steps apart, gasping, and Cara's gaze is drawn to the way Kahlan's breasts threaten to spill from her corset with every breath.

"I will lose control of my magic." Kahlan says it with certainty, in the same voice that she uses when they plan an attack, when she offers villagers solutions to their problems. "If you touch me - if you're too close to me - you will die. And I won't be able to stop myself."

Cara does not miss the lack of regret in her voice.

"I'm aware," she says, but she reaches out to touch Kahlan anyway. With her fingertip, she traces the line of Kahlan's cheekbone, drawing a line down, from her jaw to her throat to the valley between her breasts, stopping only at the lowest edge of her corset. "I don't have to touch you," Cara says, as she pulls It from Its hiding place with her free hand. Kahlan's gaze is hungry. "I can always watch."

Kahlan bites her lip, and Cara _knows_ that she's ready to reach out, eager for this despite herself. But she pauses, fingers twitching at her side, and Cara can almost see the morality floating behind her eyes, the way she's weighing the Goodness and Badness in the decision her body has already made. "Why are you doing this?" she asks, and Cara has to suppress the urge to roll her eyes.

She thinks, for a long moment, about the ways that she could respond. She thinks about whether or not she can get away with lying to a Confessor, about whether or not Kahlan would care even if she noticed.

In the end, it's Richard's voice in the back of her mind ( _Cara, be nice_ ), and a strange something inside her that she doesn't care to examine too closely, that makes her reach for the truth. She looks away, unwilling to meet Kahlan's gaze.

"In the temple, I had - sisters. We would take care of each other." When she looks up, Kahlan's surprise is visible. Cara knows, then, that honesty was the right decision. "Here, all I have is you."

Kahlan's expression is tender, as she presses her palm to Cara's cheek, and she radiates the sort of quiet calm that truly makes her the Mother Confessor, as she brushes their lips together. It's a kiss, but it feels like forgiveness, and Cara hates it.

She breaks away, pressing It into Kahlan's palm and stepping back, sitting a safe distance away.

"Sit down," she says, as Kahlan's eyes close an she gives in to It, to the hum of pleasure that Cara knows is traveling up her arm, across her skin, pooling wetness between her thighs. "Or you'll fall."

Kahlan does, gingerly, dropping It to the ground and following. She settles herself with her back against a tree, legs crossed delicately, like a lady's. It's not until Cara gives her a look that she bends her knees, spreads them apart. The folds of her dress fall across her feet, obscuring Cara's view as Kahlan's hand works to find the top of her leggings and ease them down. The expression on Kahlan's face is a familiar one, and Cara knows - hardly needs to imagine - the way her fingertips are finding the slickness between her legs, the way desire is blooming into need as she touches herself, after Cara can only guess how long.

When Kahlan is ready, she grasps It in her hand, and the power of It hits her so strongly that her hips rise off the ground.

Cara can't see much, but she doesn't need to. She's seen a woman's body before, countless times. The better thing to watch is Kahlan's face, and Cara doesn't bother to hide the hunger in her eyes as she stares. She's never seen Kahlan look like this before, and she almost wishes there was a way to memorize it, to come back to it later.

Seeing this once, she already knows, will not be enough.

Kahlan's face is slack, her mouth half-open with lust, and the thought that consumes Cara is that she seems, for once, more like a _woman_ than the Mother Confessor. She's making sound, as she works It under her clothes - real sound, as though she truly is helpless with need, not the sort of sound made as strategy. It's those, the little, whimpering moans, that have Cara's hands straying to her own body, slipping off her gloves and loosening the laces at her hips so that she can slide her fingers against skin.

As Kahlan rocks against It, Cara's fingers slip inside herself, moving in time. It's odd, the sense of kinship she begins to feel with the Confessor, as her whimpering grows more urgent and her movements grow less rhythmic. It's the sort of thing Cara was taught to believe she'd never feel, outside of a Mord'Sith temple.

When Kahlan loses herself, she actually glows, bright-white, just for a moment. The sight of her face as she finds her release makes Cara's fingers move in double-time, bringing her ever-closer to the edge.

Cara focuses on her own release as Kahlan places It on the ground, still shuddering, using her fingers to ride out the last of her climax. Her eyes are black, her hair wild around her shoulders, and Cara admires the view in a way that she feels between her skin and her fingertips. She finishes soon after, eyes fixed on Kahlan's, gasping aloud at the rush of satisfying herself with a companion, instead of alone.

Despite herself, Cara has missed this.

As Cara regains her composure, Kahlan smiles, and it's a surprise. It's the sort of expression she would never expect from a Confessor, the sort of expression she's only seen on her sisters.

The one that says, _I like the way you look, when you do that._

Cara crawls across the distance between them, limbs heavy. "May I touch you again?" she asks.

The question is mostly born from desire to avoid death by confession, rather than courtesy, but Kahlan gives her a shy smile as she nods.

The kiss they share is lazy, a fitting end to the experience, no more and no less. They help each other stand in silence that feel less tense than it has in days. As Cara wraps It, carefully cleaning the leather until it's white and soft and unblemished, Kahlan steps closer. Cara is too preoccupied to think about her intentions until she feels steady hands at her hips, working at the laces down her thighs. Helping her dress.

Cara looks up, surprised. "This doesn't mean I trust you," Kahlan says, but her voice is gentler than it ever was before.

"Good." Kahlan's hands go still, but she does not reach for her weapon. It is not respect, or friendship, but it is more than it was before. Cara smiles. "I need someone to keep me honest."

Kahlan smiles back. 


End file.
